Love is My Religion
by za
Summary: Satine looks back on how she helped her lover...not who you think...


Title: Love is My Religion

Author: mao

Disclaimer: The idea of Moulin Rouge! belongs to the incredible Baz Luhrmann and his staff. I am eternally indebted to him. 

Author's Notes: This was floating around in my head for about a year, but has been spewed out finally by Yvi, who wrote a wonderful piece a few months ago. This is almost a companion to it, if that's possible.

Warnings: Sexual references, lesbianism.

***

"I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion -

I have shudder'd at it.

I shudder no more.

I could be martyr'd for my religion

Love is my religion

And I could die for that.

I could die for you." - John Keats

I'm dying. It's the words everyone has been afraid to say, but we all know it's happening. It's why Spectaculaire Spectaculaire is being rushed, why the Duke wants me with such eagerness, why Zidler's so sweet to me, so tolerante of what's happening with Christian. You even know it, don't you? But like always, you won't be kind to me for what I've done to you. I deserve your hate. 

And I don't even know what is happening with Christian, exactly. He's asleep now, and I can ponder without him pouting and wondering what's wrong between us. The sex is great, though he cried the first time afterwards. He was a virgin - I thought he was joking when he said that. Men don't make it to twenty-three in this world without having their way with a few women, even if those women are whores like me. And usually those few that do aren't so...instinctually good in bed. 

I'm brushing my hair - my greatest feature. I remember your hand running through it - those perfect hands, streaked with our sweat and sex, gently wandering over my body, pausing to pinch a nipple here, a muscle there as we lay naked in my bed. I remember the way the candlelight looked on your skin, creamy and warm, like milk. I remember the look on your face when I broke your heart.

I wish I could tell you how it hurt me to tell you it was over. You wouldn't believe me now - you were always so damn stubborn - but who knows, maybe I'll try to get it through your thick skull anyway. 

I remember the first time you came to visit me. It was just after Veronique had died of syphilis and our act had been split - you remember the one, the devil and the angel, sisters in lust. I had my own room already, and you pounded on the door in a rage, cheeks that bright pink that always meant you were angry or aroused. I remember the way you screamed at me, every word you said, how so many of your sentances were punctuated with "whore" and "slut". You wanted to know why I hated you so much to get you pushed back to just another can-can girl. 

We argued, and you struggled for something to say. And then you kissed me. 

And what a glorious night that was. Your fingers playing my body like a piano, the beautiful sighs and small cries that came from your throat, the black of your hair against the white of my fingers. I still remember it in frozen seconds- my hands on your perfect, small breasts. Your lips on my throat. The taste of cigarettes and cheap tea on your breath. Your naked body pressed against mine afterwards, sheets rumpled at the foot of the bed. Your slim, if short, fingers entering my body slowly. You fluttering as I lower my mouth to your pink nipple, rising towards me. 

The things I remember...

I wish I could write you a letter. That's something you and Christian have in common - your love of letters. His letters are better than your's, and his spelling, but your poetet had that simplistic, honest quality about it that made it so beautiful. I still have the letters you wrote me in a beautiful gilt box the Duke gave me. Even the angry ones - because I deserve your anger, for so many things. 

I would love to write to you, but as well as I can read, I couldn't write my name to save my life. 

We're linked, love. Inexplicably and forever, and perhaps it's because of our love, though perhaps it's something more. I know you do these terrible things to me - the veiled hints, the bets with Mome Fromage, and all the rest - because you care.

You're angry, and that means you care. 

I don't want to die, because I want to make it up to you. I want you to forgive me before I die. I want to die knowing that the first person I ever loved - someone I am still in love with - understands how deeply I care, that all I've said and done was for our mutual benefit. We can't afford to fall in love, and you know that. I am Zidler's daughter, and he still sells me to the highest bidder, keeps me from loving anyone who might make me feel more complete. I wish you weren't hurt so by this fact. 

I wish I'd found a better way to tell you we can't be together. The look you gave me, like a rat caught in a trap they suspected, was so painful I still wake up crying sometimes. And that you don't know the little favors I still call in for you, things Zidler would never give you, like having Marie darn your costumes, the cheap tea that comes out of my comission, the fact that your bathwater is warmed. These are things I know that you love and notice are singular to you. They're also things I still try so hard to provide for you. 

I remember how you woke, wrapped in the soft early morning light, eyes opened slowly, and looked at me. Black eyes, black pupils, like an opium smoker. You yawned broadly, showing me your amazing pink tongue, and smiled lazily. I remember I wanted to cry, but I had to be tough. 

"We have to end it." I hate those words, but I knew that if I got those out, the rest of it was made. You blinked, the morning smile gone from your face.

"What?" Maybe I shouldn't have said it first thing. Maybe I shouldn't have said it at all, but you were becoming jealous, love, wanting me when we had to work. Some men like that - most men like that, but we aren't paid to love each other for voyeurs. And maybe money was important to me then, when I was healthy. 

I don't remember what we said next.

That's a lie. Of course I do.

I just hate myself for it.

"It's over, Nini. I don't love you anymore. This never really worked for me anyway." You had tears in your eyes. They twinkled brightly, almost merrily, but you were brave. You kept them in your eyes, being strong as I attacked you and our love. "I'm not as perverted as you. This was an interesting...experiment, but I'm not that kind of person." I twirled in my chair, to look at you properly, instead of in the mirror. "You're disgusting, even for this kind of place."

And you cursed at me in Spanish, the only gift your long-forgotten mother left you with - angry words no one in Paris could understand. But I didn't need the words or the translation. The volume and the anger as you climbed out of bed and began roughly pulling your clothes on were enough. 

You slammed the door on your way out, rattling all the gold and brass in the place. And I went on brushing my hair, as if nothing had happened. I still haven't cried over you, Nini, and maybe I should. 

I saved you from this fate. After I broke our ties, Zidler received a client who coughed, gagged, and was insanely rich. He wanted me, because, as he put it, he wanted the best. Zidler knew he couldn't get away with giving him one of the new girls or one of the lazy girls, because the man would know that wasn't the best the Moulin Rouge has to offer. 

He offered him you.

I overheard this, the hacking and the painful coughing and the more painful offer of a "beautiful, sultry señorita" in my place. That was when I burst through the curtain, smiling the most flirtatiously I could. 

"Harold, is this my guest for the evening?" I smiled and smiled till I felt like my face would crack open, but it was worth it because I saved you from this slow death, this blood in the throat and moisture in the lungs, this terrible weakness I feel so much of the time. Harold couldn't say no, not in front of the client. 

Instead, he glared at me and said, "I was thinking of Nini, Satine." I cut him off, telling him a lie that you were busy - or maybe it wasn't such a lie. You did take up with Araby shortly after we broke off. You two never did care as much about money as I did, and how wonderful for you that that was the case. 

We lay together, the consumptive and I, his skinny body pressed against my flesh, and I took my mind away. The whole night, I was with you, with your supple skin like butter, your beautiful flashing eyes, your elegant way of finding out exactly how to make me happier than anyone ever. 

It was one of the best nights I've ever had, right up until I opened my eyes and got a face-full of consumption. And now I'll die for that favor. 

I am dying, and he is not. I want our brief time together to be better, because I am dying for the first one I loved. I don't want my second love to love himself for a dead woman. He makes me happy Nini, the same way you used to. I wish you could just see it.


End file.
